


Spy, Scout, Father, Son

by kat_writes_stuff



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Dad Spy, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, dad!spy is my shit, expect naked people, love that stinky frenchman, mentions of other mercs, spy is super guilty over jeremys death, spys pov, takes place in comic 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26158816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat_writes_stuff/pseuds/kat_writes_stuff
Summary: Spy was an enigma, shrouded in mystery, hidden behind layers of personas and well crafted lies he'd built up from all his years as an assassin. He's kept his secrets locked behind his facade, tried his damndest to keep his true feelings bottled up, lest it came back to bite him in the arse. And in a way, it did.He was a 48 year old man, brought to the brink of an emotional meltdown by his 27 year old son. His son, his Jeremy, his dumb, beloved boy.
Relationships: Scout & Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 190





	Spy, Scout, Father, Son

**Author's Note:**

> I've been struggling with major writer's block and school but now! that school's just about over I managed to write a little Dad Spy piece. Considering how fast and how little editing I did, I thought it'd turn out subpar but I'm actually pretty proud of myself. I hope this short piece brings some kind of comfort to you, if you needed it :)

It was a cough. Quieter than a whisper, so quiet that he and Sniper almost missed it over the cacophony of exploding robots, and explosions in general, outside the building.

But then they turned around, and Sniper spoke first, with a growing smile on his pale face, "Well I'll be..."

And then he spoke second, with undisguised exasperation on his own face, "You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me."

That bastard. How dare he. How dare he. How fucking _dare_ he.

He had held him. He, the Spy, the enigma shrouded in mystery, the man with many faces, he who worked so hard to keep his expressions in check lest he accidentally gave away his true feelings. He, who had held the stupid, dear, boy in his arms despite the pain in his leg and in his chest, despite the tears pricking his eyes, because he didn't want to let him wander into the unknown alone. He, who was such a coward, he couldn't even face the man, his boy, his son, and tell him how proud he was of him.

He had held him. Cried over him. Had to fight off Sniper when he tried to pry his arms off the body because he had gotten cold and— _mate we've got a fight to win, we'll come back for him later I promise_

But Spy didn't want to.

And there he was. With the absolute audacity to be alive despite everything that had just happened a mere five minutes ago. It made Spy grind his teeth knowing how everything he had said and done for Jeremy these five minutes had been for nothing. The words, the blood on his gloves from clutching the body too hard, the tears, the godforsaken Tom Jones disguise, all for nothing. But he had never felt such relief in his life either.

And between grief and relief, he would never choose the former.

"Hey guys," Scout waved, a weak smile crossing his face. "What's up?"

And the bushman had the boldness to laugh.

"Now that's a bloody miracle if I ever saw one," he said as he went over to help Scout up. And Spy was there, with an arm in front of Sniper to stop him. He had moved on his own without thinking, and it seemed his mouth was in cahoots with his arm, "I will help him."

Sniper had raised an eyebrow, but Spy could see the gears in his head turning. Surely, the idiot dingo would know why this was important to him.

After a moment's silence, Sniper nodded and took a step back. And Spy stooped down to face his son a second time.

"Jeremy," the name felt heavy on his tongue, like he didn't deserve to say it, "Can you stand?"

"Huh? Yeah, sure, I'll play foosball with ya, anything for you God."

Spy had to fight the urge to roll his eyes back into his head.

"Jeremy, as lucid as you may be, I need to know if you can stand."

"What? Stand? Nah, I gotta _biggg_ ouchie, remember?" Scout slurred as he lifted his shirt to reveal that, yes, he was still bleeding out of his lower abdomen. Why God could resurrect his son but couldn't stop the bleeding and get rid of the Sex Bomb tattoo, Spy would never know.

"I need one'a Doc's bone un-hurting juice… da bone… bone not-ouchie stuff… wha's it called again?"

"Medigun fluids," Spy said as he placed Jeremy’s cap back in its rightful place, fighting the urge to ruffle his hair like a child. "Scout, if I let you lean on me we can both walk outside and find Medic and get your… bone... not-ouchie juice."

Behind him Sniper snickered.

Scout' bloodless face brightened up, and Spy's wizened old heart softened a little at his boy's smile, "Yeahhh, okay. Let's go find Doc."

Spy wrapped his arm under Scout and lifted, slightly mortified by how icy his body was. And Scout wrapped his arms around Spy's neck and heaved himself up, staggering slightly from the shift in gravity.

Sniper had looked away, listening out for any incoming robots. Good. Spy didn't want him to see the expressions on his face.

It was a Spybot that got Jeremy. He didn't realise it earlier, but now as they limped away from the dark stain in the wall where Jeremy had slumped up against, Spy could just make out the oval shape of a Spybot head on the ground. The very irony of the situation was laughable, a cruel, unnecessary joke played on Spy by God. It made the Frenchman fume as he led Jeremy around the building, one of his arms slung around Spy's shoulder, Spy's hand gently placed on the small of his son's back.

Jeremy didn't deserve it. All of the burdens, his wrongdoings, every sin Spy had committed in all his years as a mercenary deserved to be returned tenfold to _him_ , and him only. Not Jeremy. Never Jeremy.

Spy silently vowed that if he ever saw the enemy Heavy ever again, he would kill him on site for what he did.

And then they were outside, the motley trio consisting of a naked Sniper, an injured Spy, and the even more badly injured Scout. If he had told past Spy that in the future he would be fighting robots that ran on money with two Lazarus's, one of them being his son, past Spy would laugh before promptly stabbing him.

The battle was almost over it seemed, just a few straggler robots without weapons. Hearty laughter from his left drew Spy’s attention to the hulking mass of muscle which was Saxton Hale, who seemed to be content with punching the shit out of Grey Mann’s bots and laughing at them as they fell to pieces.

“Hello naked sniper!”

That was none other than Soldier, who was naked and covered in honey. And next to him Zhanna waved at them… _also_ naked and covered in honey. Good God, why was everyone naked today?

Thankfully Miss Pauling was not naked, just mildly exasperated.

“As glad as I am to see all of you alive, please do _not_ tell me why Sniper is naked. I don’t want to know,” Miss Pauling sighed when Spy hobbled up to her with Scout in tow.

“I won't tell you if you don't tell me why Soldier and Zhanna are also in the nude,” he replied dryly. “Do you by chance know where our good Doctor is?”

“Last I saw he was patching up Demo. But the cargo Mr Hale and his lady friend dropped in with should have lots of medical supplies,” she said as she pointed at several crates with the Mann Co. logo on them. “Some of them have weapons and clothes too. I’m probably going to have to force Soldier to wear them.”

The weariness and exhaustion in Miss Pauling’s eyes was something he could sympathize with. Maybe it was best not to tell her that Scout had been legally dead for about five minutes.

“Good luck.” And for the first time that day, Miss Pauling managed a smile.

Wincing slightly, Spy set Scout down the nearest Mann Co. crate and began rummaging around its contents. After finding some clean bandages Spy set to work wrapping them around Jeremy’s wound.

For a second he thought Jeremy had left again. He was so quiet, so still, devoid of energy, nothing like his boy at all. A tremor from a far off explosion caused Spy to jolt, smearing blood across his glove.

There was blood on his hands. Dark red stains that he could feel through his gloves and— oh god, it’s not coming off, _it’s not coming off_ , Jeremy’s dead and the blood’s not _fucking_ coming off his hands— Jeremy, mon fils, je suis désolé, Papa was a _coward_ and a _failure_ and couldn’t save you, Jeremy, mon loulou, Papa is _so so sorry—_

“Spy?”

Blinking away tears, Spy looked up to see his son looking at him with the most pitiful expression a half-dead man could give.

“You okay Spy?” The runner asked, coughing weakly. The shudder that ran through his body as he hacked and wheezed was enough to shake Spy out of his thoughts.

“Of course mon lou— mon petit,” Spy murmured, a bit too curt for his liking. In a split second he had reverted back to his cold demeanor, “Don’t move so much you idiot, I’m trying to stop the bleeding.”

“Ha. Sure. You were so spaced out I thought I was gonna bleed to death or something,” Jeremy scoffed, not even noticing the way Spy had flinched. “Got any painkillers?”

Spy handed the Mann Co. _Very Trustworthy Definitely Doctor Approved Painkillers_ to Jeremy who promptly downed half the bottle in one gulp.

“Ahhh, that’s better,” He sighed. “Want some?”

“Non, save them for someone else who needs it more,” Spy murmured as he finished Scout’s bandage, tying a neat little knot to staunch the bleeding.

“Nah man, I know you got your leg busted up. And you had to drag my ass around too,” he held out the bottle, “Just take some, dummy.”

“Fine.”

Spy took two pills. And apparently that was enough for Scout because he looked very pleased with himself. He then offered to patch Spy’s leg for him, which Spy outright refused.

“Just let me do this for you, you stupid idiot. I know you're hurt and shit,” Jeremy said, grabbing Spy’s leg without warning. "You don't have to act macho and pretend to be alright."

And so, Spy was left at the mercy of his son. Spitting out the cigarette he had gnawed up, Spy pawed at his bloodied chest pocket until he found a spare cigarette and promptly lit it, lifting it to his mouth for a drag.

It was the most awkward encounter he’s had with Scout by far. Between the tremors of explosions, the way his hand couldn’t stop shaking around his cigarette, and Jeremy’s hands deftly wrapping bandages around his increasingly painful wound, the whole thing felt like a bad fever dream. The silence between them seemed to stretch on forever.

And in a blink of an eye, forever came to a halt as Scout tied the last knot of the bandage.

“Anddd there! Good as new!”

He had to admit, it was a fairly good job at bandaging. Definitely faster than his attempt at bandaging Scout, at least.

“Thank you, mon petite,” Spy said, and he meant it.

“It's nothing, consider it thanks,” the Bostonian rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “For, ya know, dragging me around even though you were hurt and shit. Means a lot. So thanks.”

If Spy’s übercharged mega baboon heart softened anymore it might just end up becoming a lump of dough sitting in his chest cavity.

“Of course. Anything for a teammate.” 

"Yeah, yeah, don't expect me to be this nice to ya anytime soon. This was a one-time thing, got it?"

"Likewise," Spy said, allowing himself a small smile. 

Maybe one day they would be able to sit down and have a proper talk, without being surrounded by noisy, naked, honey and blood splattered people and deadly robots, and maybe Spy would be able to tell Jeremy everything.

It was a nice thought, being able to shed his personas and lies and come clean about everything he’d kept locked up inside him. He could show Jeremy the photos his _petite chou fleur_ had mailed to him when he was away on missions. Spy was sure Jeremy would appreciate the small album he’d put together with all of Jeremy’s photos while he was growing up.

He was lucky enough to wrestle his son back from the clutches of Death, so who knows? Maybe one day he’ll be lucky enough to show him the album, to sit down and have that talk with him, to be able to tell him, face-to-face, father to son, that he was proud of him. And that he loved him— his stupid, dear, boy— more than words could describe.

But for now, they'd have to make do with backhanded compliments, occasional moments of wholesomeness, and insults. For now.


End file.
